


Of The Damned

by IronicAppreciation



Category: Be More Chill - Iconis/Tracz
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Angst, Death, F/F, F/M, Gen, I'm jumping onto the Apocalypse bandwagon, It's all tentative at this point, M/M, Pain, Pining, Post-Squip, Rating May Change, Shit, That's right, This is my first bmc fic, Zombie Apocalypse, a lot of pining, god i love pining, happiness? i don't know her
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-30
Updated: 2017-10-29
Packaged: 2018-12-21 19:38:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11951214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IronicAppreciation/pseuds/IronicAppreciation
Summary: If this was an apocalypse, I would not need any tips, on how to stay alive~Turns out survival is a lot harder than it's made out to be.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I HAVE NOT ABANDONED EL AUTOBUS!!  
> School is just kicking my ass, and I'm taking a break.  
> (Don't be an upperclassman, kids, it's not worth it)  
> After the SATs, I'll probably start off again idk.  
> Anyway have this to satiate any musical needs y'all, I'm so sorry.  
> Thank you and enjoy (if possible, I know it's garbage) :)

“Shit!”

Chloe Valentine swore abruptly and flinched, a scowl painted across her face as she pressed her lips to her pricked finger, trace amounts of blood tainting the affronting weapon before her. She growled, eyeing the candid culprit with a jeering glare.

“It’s the goddamn _apocalypse_ and I’m still getting fucking papercuts! I want a refund.”

Sucking on her wounded thumb irritably, she grumbled, closing the offending album and shoving it harshly across the table, her hair flouncing as she sat back with an agitated huff. She averted her eyes, directed a cursory stare at the shriveled shell of a boy opposite her, and glowered, petulant voice muffled by her obstructing hand.

“I’m gonna sue your book, Heere.”

He giggled trepidatiously in lieu of a reply, color flushing his pale features for the briefest of moments as he habitually hastened to obscure an encroaching, faint smile with an inhumanly bony hand.

“And what do you plan to do with the money? _Pay_ the zombies to leave you alone?”

She reached over, her eyebrows furrowing in mock anger, and flicked at his sunken cheek. Jeremy swatted her away in turn, feigning indignance, his laugh hollow and chipped, but resonant nonetheless.

She beamed in spite of herself, watching his eyes crinkle and his dimples reveal themselves, and for a moment, everything was good again.

For a moment, she was back in the Middleborough cafeteria, ignoring whatever sticky substance was adhering to the bottom of her shoe while picking at the inedible slush the school valiantly attempted to advertize as food, with Brooke giggling and nuzzling into her side and Jeremy fidgeting across from her, doing his best to conceal the fruitless blush that betrayed his mesmerization whenever a certain boy arrived at the table, complaining loudly about so and so’s erroneous taste in music.

For a moment, she was once again just 16 years old, 17 in a week, planning a party that would involve more booze and less supervision than could possibly be considered safe.

And then, an abhorrently tumultuous crash sounded outside, interjecting rudely and bringing any fickle reminiscence of what once was to a grinding halt. Jeremy’s grin vanished so promptly, it might as well have been solely subliminal, never truly existing in this wretched reality to begin with, and Chloe’s gaze snapped to the door, eyes widening in mortification as a familiar influx of coarse tension smugly reclaimed the momentarily comfortable atmosphere, greeting the broken world within the crumpled, dingy room like an old, forgotten friend.

A bloodied, frantic Richard Goranski dashed through the creaking, withered doorframe, slamming the thing behind him and wincing at the whine that keened from its unattended hinges. He met the reserved, petrified glances of the room’s inhabitants and swallowed staggeringly, expression solemn, eyes wavering and damp and conveying more deterrent fear than Chloe had ever seen reflected in those rusted, sparkling irises, and suddenly, Middleborough high had never seemed so painstakingly _distant_ , and it was woefully clear that nothing could ever, _ever_ go back to the way it once was. She was _not_ in the cafeteria, and her biggest problem was _not_ an unfortunate case of pining gaillessly after her best friend. She was no longer the Chloe Valentine that the whole school loved to hate. No longer the girl so infamously adored, pedestalized, discussed, and despised in equilibrium.

She never would be again.

Rich’s voice croaked uncharacteristically when he spoke, trembling with reluctance and jarring incredulity. 

“Christine’s gone," he whispered incoherently, as though if the words were never produced, they might be made less real, "Christine’s fucking _gone_.”  

Never, _ever_ again. 


	2. I: And If You're Still Bleeding, You're The Lucky Ones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 0 to 100 real fast lmao  
> Get ready for shit to hit the fan y'all the apocalypse can't stay fluffy forever

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Title taken from "Youth" by Daughter

_**Day 0** _

 

Of all the places one could spontaneously keel over and _die_ , Jake had never thought the shitty Arby’s a couple of miles from school would prove to be so damn optimal.

 

The plan had been fairly simple: no extravagant delineating required, no hassle, and only a _few_ facetious laws broken in the process. It was supposed to be at most a ten-minute, cyclic trip, seven miles there and seven miles back, that resulted in their arriving at the cafeteria unhindered with just enough time to finish a succinctly achieved hot meal. And sure, maybe forcing 84 mph upon Michael’s poor archaic antique of a vehicle while holding two excess passengers could manifest as a potential risk, but they had no choice. Chloe wanted curly fries, and what kind of ex would Jake be if he couldn’t provide the former love-of-his-life with some goddamn fast food?

A normal one, probably, and Jacob Dillinger resolutely _refused_ to accept that bleak a fate.

He’d done all the necessary calculations: the lunch periods were about 30 to 40 minutes each, and in order to comfortably complete their food, one would require at least 20 minutes of uninterrupted chow time. That afforded him anywhere from 10-20 minutes to get to the Arby’s and get back, with a margin of error of approximately 5 minutes, taking into account coordination and any potential obstacles. Erring on the side of caution, because Jake was _nothing_ if not thorough, he designated at most 12 minutes towards driving the entire distance, and chose Michael over Jenna solely because he was a blatantly more reckless chauffeur than the latter (Jeremy might’ve been inherently fidgety, but Jake was pretty damn certain that his insatiable tremoring every morning was at least partly due to the fact that Michael’s car seemed only ever capable of _viciously swerving_ into its parking spot). Besides, he could approach Michael with the request of mass murder and be met with very little resistance, whereas Jenna abused her bargaining and bribery skills over favors as infinitesimal as borrowing a pencil.

So, when he received an unreluctant “sure” less than five minutes after sending the former his adamant appeal, it wasn’t much of a surprise.

With his expedient of transport secured, Jake was entirely prepared to pile into the manhandled cruiser with Chloe and Mike the minute the bell rang, grabbing whatever deep-fried anomalies the makeshift restaurant had to offer and careening home faster than ultraviolet wavelengths could travel. Unfortunately, a minor hindrance that he had failed to prognosticate was introduced to his ploy when he accidently let slip his intentions to one Christine Canigula during the dismally dreadful hour of APUSH.

“You’re doing WHAT?”

She’d demanded so aggressively, the outburst had earned her a disdainful glare from their wily old twig of a professor at the front of the class, who was mumbling something indiscernible about either Suffrage or Bondage (most probably the former. _Hopefully_ the former). Jake was effectively astounded; he hadn’t thought _anything_ could assuage Christine's attention from the women’s rights lesson she’d been so eagerly anticipating all year long.

“Uhhh...I’m taking Chloe out for lunch? To the Arby’s by the 7/11 we rendezvoused at last week.”

She scrutinized him with a calculated glower that could make God himself squirm in discomfort, and Jake guessed astutely that the answer he gave was _not_ what she had been looking for.

“Today? With Michael? Why?”

He was taken aback, to say the least, by her unprecedented interrogation, floundering for a response or an excuse or really _anything_ that would suffice to make her avert her goddamn skin-searing glare.

“I-I don’t know! No reason, really? She just-she wanted to. Fuck, what do you want me to say?”

Christine’s gaze softened somewhat, and it immediately felt as though about a thousand pounds of abhorrently burning coals had been unburdened from his shoulders.

“So...you’re not doing it cuz she’s carrying your baby?”

And then the coals were back, scorching hotter than ever, and Jake emitted a strangled squawk of indignation that could affluently rival every indiscriminate noise that exited Jeremy Heere’s mouth.

Christine snickered quietly, returning to her notes. “I’m guessing that’s a no.”

 _“She’s not pregnant!”_ Jake hissed shrilly enough to attract a snottily reprobating stare from the girl in front of him. _“We’re not dating!”_

His hysteria incited a second snort (contrary to popular belief, Christine was very aptly capable of being a professional little _shit_ when she put her mind to it), and she held up her hands appeasingly, her tone playfully defensive and dismissive as she spoke through bouts of giggles, “look, you guys’re the ones who appointed me the title of ‘mom friend’. I’m just doing my job and making sure none of you kids get into too much trouble.”

Jake whacked her with his notebook, and if his face was flushed mildly red, he’d blame it on the frigidity of the classroom.

 _“Christine!”_ he borderline whined, eyebrows knitted together fervently, and Christine beamed, shaking her head.

“I’m _sorry._ But most people don’t just take their ex-girlfriends out to lunch for no reason.” she mused, settling back and refocusing on the historical plights and struggles that led to the establishment of the 19th amendment. “Then again,” she remedied with a soft smile, “you really aren’t most people, are you?”

Jake huffed belligerently, grumbling and slumping irritably into his seat, turning his attention to the board as well and impressively resisting the urge to flip off the girl in front of him when she turned scornfully to shush him.

 

The remainder of class proceeded with no further irredeemable incidents, and when the bell rang, Jake _foolishly_ assumed he was home free, dashing out the door the moment he was dismissed and producing his phone, confirming the progression of Operation Feed My Valentine (the only con about conspiring with Michael Mell was his persistent necessity to _name_ everything, but even that was more cute than it was irritating) with a quick text and preparing to hightail it to the parking lot.

But of course, before he could make even the slightest movement to escape the rapidly congesting hallway, a small hand grabbed hold of his wrist, fingers curling feverishly around his arm, and from the pervading crowd emerged none other than Christine herself, a scowl painted on her face, her customarily neat black bob-cut spectacularly disheveled.  

“Dude, what the hell? I almost lost you back there.”

Jake blinked, dumbfounded as she relinquished her vice-like grip on his hand and smoothed out her skirt, babbling on.

“I mean, _really,_ not all of us have been making football our bitch since elementary school. We can’t tower over everybody like you can.”

He gaped at her, thoroughly puzzled, and let out an intelligent, “wuh?”

“Except for Jer, I guess,” she continued noncommittally, evidently not hearing what was, in her defense, barely even qualifiable as a sound, “but he’s always kind of groveling so it doesn’t count. Point is, slow your 6 ft 2 ass down.”

She walked past him, and Jake found himself royally confounded and astonishingly fucking clueless as to _what the hell_ just happened as he followed after her, being ushered listlessly like an obedient puppy.

He tried again, blubbering incoherently.

“What?”

Christine appeared to take note of his utterance that time, swiveling around to face him, “Hm? Did you say something?”

Searching for a coyly less douchey and somewhat more delicate way to phrase the query, _‘what the fuck are you doing?’_ and coming up empty-handed, Jake cursed his innate lack of eloquence and instead settled for a third consecutive “what?”

She chuckled, and he honestly couldn’t blame her, carding his fingers through his hair for lack of anything better to do, watching as she reached to take his free hand once more.

“Come on, we gotta hurry, you said you had a schedule, right?”

Jake just stared incredulously in lieu of a response, and she clarified, “I mean, what’s the point of making a timetable if we’re just going to dawdle and end up late regardless?”

By some phenomenon just short of a miracle, Jake’s tongue discovered its priorly inhibited capacity to form words, and he cleared his throat.

“ _We?_ ”

She nodded, tugging him towards the exit and expertly maneuvering through hordes of students, “Course. You, Michael, Chloe, and me.” And with a deceptively mellifluous laugh, she stopped right before the door to the parking lot and turned to fix him with a precocious stare, _daring_ him to challenge her. “I couldn’t leave her to hold her own in this sad little sausage fest, now could I?”

And if Jake had needed another reason to adore Michael Mell, who he was already acutely convinced was some sort of actual fucking _angel_ masqueraded as a dweebish teenager, the boy promptly appeared at the entrance of the school and saved him from what would’ve inevitably been a slow, excruciating death in the nick of time, renouncing whatever inexorably _wrong_ reply he might’ve given the imperceptibly intimidating 5 feet and 3 inches of cunning charisma poised tactfully in front of him.

Jake thought he could _kiss_ the new arrival out of sheer gratitude as he gazed up at him with a prevalent frown, hands shoved into the pockets of his hoodie.

“Dude? This was your idea, man. You could at least try to make it on time.”

Seriously. _God bless Michael Mell._

“Christine’s coming with us!” Jake blurted out impertinently, giving no indication that he’d even acknowledged what Michael had said. _Smooth, Dillinger._

The shorter boy arched an eyebrow inquisitively, his headphones trained around the cuff of his collar as he shot Jake a legitimately concerned glance, and Jake would’ve been lying if he claimed that he was not, at that moment, also questioning his own sanity.

“Okaaay?...”

Michael turned to face Christine, who, despite being a good three inches shorter than him, met his gaze evenly and chipperly, radiating confidence and charm and none of the indiscernibly _petrifying_ menace she’d directed at Jake less than a minute ago.

“Hey Christine.”

“Hi Michael!”

This was _blatant_ favoritism.

“So, are we good to go?”

Michael spun on his heel, motioning the door and eyeing Jake ambivalently, “or, do you just feel like glaring at that empty wall for a few more minutes?”

His attention snapped abruptly to the other boy, and he flashed an amicable grin, recovering impeccably from his aghast start with a chivalrous chortle, “Sorry, dude. Yeah, let’s roll.”

 _Two_ could play at this game, _Canigula_.

 

They made it to the parking lot, and, after wasting another three minutes of precious, unsquanderable time while Chloe berated their tardiness, were finally on the road, the car lurching and jolting at every sharp turn as Michael accelerated beyond what could _plausibly_ pass for a legal speed limit anywhere in the world. Christine shrieked at least twice, Jake a surmountable five and a half times (during one of which he was cut off by Chloe rolling her eyes and ludicrously slapping a hand over his lips), whenever the vehicle threatened to forgo the pavement in favor of colliding with the skirting trees or houses or, in one particularly mortifying case, the pedestrian walking a stroller alongside their convertible of _death._

Jake was beginning to painstakingly regret his decision of letting Michael drive, hankering for a consolatorily soothing ride in Jenna’s minivan wherein their timing might’ve been less apt, but their chances of mortality would’ve been graciously lower than _90 fucking percent._ However, upon sneaking a glance at the clock on the car’s dash, he resolved that he had made the right choice; in spite of having started five minutes late, they managed at the moment to be three minutes ahead of schedule.

At this rate, they might even secure the possibility of making it back to school before lunch was halfway over, and _damn_ wouldn’t that be impressive.

(Ideally, they’d be alive to recount their tale, but Jake knew not to be greedy. You couldn’t pick and choose a prawn from each platter. As they zoomed past their fifth or sixth stop sign, he swallowed a screech, and stapled on a smile.

He’d take what he could get.)

Besides, if Michael was, as he theorized, a saint sent from heaven, he _probably_ wouldn’t let them die.

_Probably._

By some incredible feat of infeasibility, they made it to the drive thru in one piece, Michael smugly boasting amenities of “I told you so” while Christine deflected messages asking where they were or what the hell was taking so long.

They were early, with four full minutes to spare.

Jake didn't realize how widely he was beaming until Chloe snapped at him to stop, justifying that he looked like a fucking creep.

(She had a somewhat _eccentric_ way of expressing her gratitude. But Jake had known her since they were twelve, and in those four, almost five years, had prevalently deduced that a “you’re such a weirdo” held about the emotional equivalent of an “I love and appreciate you.”

So, when he saw her brighter-than-bright smile shining with a damning genuinity as she leant over to read the menu, he knew without a shadow of a doubt that the entire ordeal had been inarguably worthwhile.)

They sat starkly, Christine and Jake wrested into the back, the former’s face burrowed in her seatmate’s sleeve, loudly complaining that if she received one more extraneous text from Jeremy, she’d throw her phone out the fucking window. Chloe took it upon herself to accumulate their party of four’s respective orders, in spite of being situated in the passenger’s seat, having to crane her lithe body over Michael’s in order to reach the window (much to the latter’s vocal umbrage), announcing into the microphone that they had made their decision.

She was received not even with static.

Exchanging a presumptuously puzzled glance with Jake, she pressed herself further against her seatbelt, straining almost directly onto Mike’s lap and proficiently ignoring his yelps of protest.

“Umm, hello? I said we’re prepared to order?”

Silence.

She perpetrated a small frown, and Jake looked at the time.

Their four minute advantage was rapidly dissipating.

A few more seconds passed as Chloe fruitlessly attempted to procure some sort of response from the useless machine before Michael coughed uncomfortably, squirming underneath her.

“Uh, maybe we should just park, and head inside to see what’s going on?”

He and the girls subsequently turned to Jake, seeking his approval for the new, tentative plan, which directly objected his established procedure. It was unspokenly known by now that the latter _needed_ every minuscule, irreverent mode of control and precaution in his life, his occupation with immaculate precision and forewarning bordering on neurotic and unhealthy (although, could you blame him? The boy had been temporarily paralyzed in a fire that obliterated his entire home and nearly killed his best friend; paranoia and perfectionism were the least of his issues.)

However, regardless of how utterly _wrong_ the diversion from his plan felt, Jake knew futility when he saw it, and with Chloe hanging halfway out the window, Michael crumpling beneath her thorax, and Christine trepidatiously evading his eyes, they weren’t left with very many alternatives.

_1 minute behind schedule._

He nodded grimly, sitting up straighter, “uh, yeah, that’s probably a better idea.”

The car’s inhabitants were only slightly somber as Michael backed out of the drive thru, parking in the spot nearest the entrance.

_3 minutes behind schedule._

They scrambled out wordlessly, and Jake swore internally at the ostentatious tension he’d managed to conjure.

_4 minutes behind schedule._

He opened the door in some lame attempt to salvage the glee that he’d tarnished, and, fretting over his own haranguing resignation, failed to notice the immediate, precarious alteration in the atmosphere.

Maybe if he had been paying attention, had taken a single glance at the interior of the store before ushering everyone inside, things would’ve gone differently.

_5 minutes behind schedule._

He had just wanted to take his friend out for lunch, goddamnit. Why was that such an unreasonable demand? Why was whatever asshole-ish deity anonymously overseeing their every action taking such perverse pleasure in their _suffering_?

_6 minutes behind schedule._

Why did everything always have to go so devastatingly wrong?

_7 minutes behind schedule._

What could they have possibly done to deserve this?

_8 minutes behind sche-_

 

Chloe screamed, and the world shattered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The asshole-ish deity is me. I am the god that takes such perverse pleasure in watching my babies s u f f e r.


	3. II: I Kept Marching In One Place, Marching In Time, To A Tune I'd Forgotten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More filler lmao I'm sorry I swear the next chapter will have actual content
> 
>  
> 
> (or maybe not, maybe i'm a filthy liar but let's all pray and hope for the best)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Title taken from "Father to Son", from Falsettos

**_Day 0_ **

 

Brooke was going to fucking _kill_ this kid.

(It was only a matter of time, really. Chloe had always joked that when she inevitably _snapped_ and the last remaining drops of her withering sanity evaporated into thin air, she'd either kill herself or everyone around her, depending on which of the options was more convenient. Fortunately, Chloe was pretty damn resilient-not invulnerable, mind you, but her attitude towards seemingly every obstacle life hurled her way was ineffably ‘fake it til you make it’. She wasn't cracking anytime soon.

Brooke Lohst, however, was another story.)

Don't get her wrong, Brooke absolutely _adored_ Jeremy, loved him to pieces. He had the tendency to ramble, sure, and he was admittedly skittish, far from your typical charmer, but he was sweet and funny and compassionate and everything you could possibly want in a friend who was in it for the longhaul. And Brooke wouldn’t change a thing about him, no matter how inadequately he perceived his every minuscule quirk and trait. He wasn’t perfect, by any denotation of the term, but none of them were _perfect_. Even Chloe Valentine had a myriad of glaring, vehement flaws, and Brooke unabashedly loved each and every one of them. No matter the attribute, defect, glitch, or shortcoming, the girl was steadfastly determined to foster and fawn over any and every conceivable blemish her friends cared to portray. From day one, she had established herself as her companions’ constant cheerleader, and that chipper appreciation and infallible passion applied to her group’s newest arrivals, too.

That being said, it ought to be noted that the one particular member of the SQUAD™ (term coined by Richard Goranski, derived of what he assured them all was completely ironic derision) she happened to share a chem class with was undeniably reprehensible _garbage_ at chemistry, completely incompetent and, even from Brooke’s gratuitously openminded regard, beyond any hope: a bellowing fault which insisted upon making itself known at that very fucking moment, in front of the entire class, and Brooke _swore to god_ if the boy had the tenacity to ask _one more stupid question_ about simple, straightforward electron configuration, she was going to _lose_ it.

It was 11 in the morning, her four-parts-sugar and one-part-caffeine starbucks concoction was rapidly forfeiting its sparking effects, and she was about one recapitulation of Schrodinger’s atomic model away from _snapping her friend’s scrawny little body like a twig._

 _God,_ she needed a break. Maybe a nap. Any semblance of a release from the weekly freakish hell American school systems masqueraded as academic application.

_In all the times she had wished and prayed for a merciful refrain from the dreadful schoolyear, she’d never ever hankered for anything like this._

The teacher’s eye twitched, his countenance bearing a painfully blatant mantra of “I don’t get paid enough for this”, and Brooke might’ve pitied Jeremy’s clear discomfort and scouring guilt under his ruthless glare were this not the fifty fucking thousandth occasion of a situation so insensibly idiotic and excruciatingly similar.

Why he’d even attempted AP Chem was beyond her. Hell, she was still baffled by his extraordinary feat of _passing_ the first semester (although maybe that had something to do with one feverishly unnamed shitty siri knockoff. Good to know that depraved floppy disk had at least _some_ sort of use).

“Jesus,” the boy behind her, Mark something-or-other, failed to mutter, adamantly pressing his knuckles to his cheek and sliding to balance on the support of his elbow, “every word that comes out of this fag’s mouth is like an _attack_ on my braincells. Can we just rip out his vocal chords so he never _fucking speaks_ again?”

Evidently, that was supposed to be funny, as the students around him broke into mirthless giggles.

And of course, Jeremy, poor _sweet_ Jeremy, assumed (not entirely incorrectly) that they were laughing at _him_ , and frantically stammered out a string of guttural apologies to no one in particular, curling in on himself and reddening obviously.

_And ‘snap!’ went the final metaphorical straw that broke the camel’s hypothetical back._

Brooke sneered, stray strands of agitated hair falling loose from her unkempt bun as she whipped around to glower at Jock McJackass. Yeah, she was vexed too, and if she were being totally honest, sewing shut Jeremy’s lips didn’t present itself as such a terrible idea at the moment. But no matter her own frustration or personal vendetta, she wasn’t about to let some borderline braindead football fuckface talk shit about her friends.

“Stop complaining, asshole” she stage whispered venomously, her shawl draping off her shoulders and her blonde bangs partially curtaining her only half-conscious expression, “you never even _had_ braincells to begin with.”

Nobody laughed at that one, and Brooke subconsciously pondered whether their abhorred silence was due to an estranged obligation of loyalty to Mark the fuckboy, or just plain, extraordinary stupidity.

Some of the festering anger bubbling in her unbridled chest was satiated when the target’s face altered comically after the full thirty seconds he required to process what she’d said. Now, his appearance fluctuated and settled somewhere between cocky and constipated, and Brooke had to physically clamp her hands over her mouth to stifle an incipient chuckle.

“Sh-shut up!” Ouch. Harsh. Brooke smiled broadly, beginning to understand the thrill and exuberance Chloe felt whenever antagonizing someone. She raised an eyebrow, letting her torso fall lax and placing her chin in her hands, shamelessly smug, as he floundered on, “You’re just mad that your dumb gay boyfriend is the stupidest person in the room!”

Resisting the urge to cackle wickedly, she grinned with the most toxic, artificial sweetness she could convey in response to his tragic attempt at a comeback. (Uncharacteristic? Maybe. But Brooke was barely awake, and had been listening to the same reiterated chemistry spiel for nearly an hour, and the guy was making this _way_ too easy. It’d be a waste not to seize such an exemplary opportunity.)

“Boyfriend? Don’t flatter yourself, sweetie,” she batted her eyelashes, her tone laced lethally with supple sardonicism like poisoned honey, “I’d ingest rotting human flesh and fuck a legless old man before dating anything like _you._ ”

She swiveled on her stool, patiently awaiting her classmate’s imminent registration of her words once the unoiled, rusting gears in his deformed brain began to churn, and being blissfully satisfied a good minute and a half later, chortling appraisingly at the hissed accusation of “Bitch!” that rang out from behind her.

“Do you have something you’d like to share with the rest of the class, Mark?”

_Oh god, this just kept getting better._

She toiled to conceal the smile that occupied her triumphant features as she joyously relished the fretting of the student behind her, who was scrambling like a mouse in a snake cage to excuse his wanton outburst. Plus, Jeremy seemed substantially less likely to spontaneously combust now that the teacher’s homicidal stare was directed at someone else, and Brooke considered that a victory in and of itself.

Mark what’s-his-face douche in a box was subsequently asked to demonstrate the longhand electron configuration of the element Xenon (“essential review,” the teacher had said, “shouldn’t be much of a challenge”, and then proceeded to look mortified and aghast when the boy started with ‘5d’, his patience and tolerance shot all to hell as he barked at Mark to “sit his useless, mentally incapacitated ass down!”), and Brooke was as chipper as physically possible when the bell rang and they headed to lunch, her morning officially exacerbated.

As she leisurely paced along the too-narrow hallways to the cafeteria, she unconsciously took heed of the pattering footsteps of her classmates diffusing behind her, a gradual chatter overbearing the priorly silent corridors, the rhythmic familiarity of students walking and talking in turn subletting the atmosphere almost comfortingly. She’d never before noticed the uniform affiliation of the passing periods she’d grown so accustomed to, because she was, for the most part, _normal,_ not conventionally lingering on uselessly metaphysical curios that held pertinence only in pretentious poetry.

_What she wouldn’t give now to be reacquainted with that warm, familiar margin of day to day life once more. What she wouldn’t do for another chance to take the most insignificant pretenses for granted. What she wouldn’t sacrifice for the guarantee that everything might go back to the way it once was, that her grandest complaints would regress into petty grievances about school and the shitheads within. But that opportunity was gone, the water had drained, and the well was dry. The bell has rung, Ms. Lohst. Class is dismissed._

“Brooke, wait!”

Her idle animation was disrupted by a scattering of feet resounding from behind her, and she turned just in time to see Jeremy clambering through the hall in attempts to catch up to her. Giggling shrewdly, she watched him stumble and skid awkwardly into a clanging collision with one of the lockers lining the walls, unphased (if a little exasperated) as he gracelessly sifted through incoming herds of kids.

He managed to run an astounding yard or so before scuttling to a halt, only mildly out of breath as he stretched his noodly form back into place. An impressive new record, if Brooke had remembered correctly.  
“Wow,” she cooed with a sly grin, adjusting the strap of her backpack and placing her hands curtly on her hips, “you didn’t collapse this time!”

He replied with a grimace, sticking his tongue out ever-so-maturely as he carded bony fingers through wispy brown locks of hair, heaving a sigh and settling an arm on the top of Brooke’s head.

“Wooooooow,” he mimicked obnoxiously, looking her down with a devious smirk of complacency tugging at his lips, “did you get _shorter?_ ”

She pantomimed a humorless laugh, then dug her elbow sharply into her friend’s exposed side, jutting _hard_ into his ribs and making him yelp out and stumble over in pain.

_Who’s short now, asshole?_

Brooke snickered indulgently and patiently observed Jeremy’s fickle attempts at recomposure, the latter glowering at her with the most malevolence he could muster as he crumpled in discomfort.

She only laughed harder.

(Murmuring disgruntledly, he straightened, having to forcibly keep his spine from snapping stiff, the torturous restraint written out discreetly across his face with a quivering lip and an infinitesimal wince, his strenuous efforts noticeable only to those who wanted to see them.

Yeah. Brooke really _would_ do anything for this dork.)

“This is harassment,” he muttered as a scraggly, softly emerging smile encroached upon his face, shaking intrudent curls out of his eyes and crossing his arms, jittery fingers fidgeting absently with the sleeves of his cardigan, “I’m gonna report you.”

She grinned up at him, snorting petulantly, “Oooooh noooo. I’m _scaaaaared._ ”

“You should be. Both my parents are lawyers. I know what I’m doing,” he quipped back with an odd air of confidence.

Brooke rolled her eyes and stretched onto her toes, craning to swing an arm around the cheese-stick of a boy’s shoulders.

“You’re _welcome_ for totally saving your ass back then, btw,” she drawled smugly, beaming brightly as they walked along.

He blinked, practically crouching to remain at eye-level with her. “Did you just say ‘btw’ out loud?” he queried softly, his owlish gaze holding Brooke’s in bewilderment.

The addressed either didn’t hear, or pretended not to.

“Seriously, Jerm, how can you _still_ not get electron configuration?” Brooke tutted softly, adjusting uncooperative hair and placing her free hand on her waist. “Your stupidity is evolving from embarrassingly funny to kinda fucking depressing.”

“I understand most of it!” he announced indignantly, adopting a meekly defensive stature as he huffed in her general direction, “it’s just the d’s that confuse me a bit.”

“Dude. My exact sentiments for like, the entirety of sophomore year.”

Both Jeremy and Brooke whirled in place to find a bedazzled Richard Goranski, adorned with sequins and paint and patches of glitter conglomerating wildly in his hair, facing them, bearing a not-unprecedented smirk and clicking his tongue suggestively, “those d’s were really _hard_ to grasp.”

“D as in atomic suborbital _‘d’_ , not _dick_ ,” Brooke snickered, unabashedly _done_ with her obnoxiously untamable hair as she tugged her scrunchie into a viciously taut ponytail to replace the useless bun.

Rich’s grin comically morphed into a scowl, and he mumbled a distasteful, “oh,” gazing up at the two with acclaimed disgust and derision spelled out in his scrunched-up features, “ _chemistry_.”

“ _Mood_ ,” Jeremy groaned in succession, snorting and letting his shoulders droop dejectedly, “seriously. _Fuck_ AP.” Rich concurred with an enthused hum of agreement, and raised a hand to pat consolingly at the former’s arm.

Rolling her eyes at the insolent mopers she called friends, Brooke inquisitively assessed Rich’s hair as he shifted to stand beside her, its monstrous collage of miscellaneous art products settling right beneath her nose as a result of the readjustment.

“Jesus, did a little kid’s art project throw up on you?” she reached over, picking at a clump of dried glue clinging loosely to his dirty blond tufts. He failed to swat her away, and Jeremy chuckled.

“Yeah, dude, I think you missed the page by like, a couple inches north.”  

Rich flipped the taller boy off, successfully assuming an expression of feigned offense, “I’m not sure if that was a height jab or an incoordination joke, but fuck you either way.”

Jeremy murmured something that sounded suspiciously like “if that's what you wanted, all you had to do was _ask,”_ as Brooke prodded belligerently at an immense pink splotch stuck directly above Rich’s eyebrow, choking on a laugh when he whined in protest.

“I'm gonna ask again: what the actual fuck?” She pulled rather fervently, but the thing wouldn’t budge.

“I came from art, is it such a surprise?” He replied abrasively, squirming to evade her prying fingers.

“Considering that the assignment _probably_ wasn't ‘use the materials provided to restyle your hair’, yes,”  Jeremy observed him with an unreadable expression for a couple of seconds, before adding, “ _but_ , since it's you, I'm gonna have to say no, not a surprise.”

Brooke guffawed, and Rich once again awarded both her and Jeremy the bird, pouting as best he could to keep the squirming laughter threatening to spill out of his lips lodged safely in the back of his throat.

“Buddy,” he consorted what he felt was his most menacing growl, maintaining a low warble in pitch and maneuvering away from any ‘s’ words, feeling that a prominent lisp wouldn’t prove to be the most intimidating of speech impediments. Snarling, he took a solemn step forward and cracked his knuckles, hoping his malevolent glare sustained the facade nicely, “You’ve made a damn good punching bag in the past and I ain’t afraid to put you back in your place,” his mouth spread into a sinister grin, “one wrong word, Heere. Fuckin one. _Try me._ ”

Silence settled for a brief moment, and Rich thrilled at having achieved his wanted effect, before the bubble burst and Brooke doubled over, howling yet louder than she had been before.

“Was _that,”_ she screeched incredulously between giggles, clutching at her stomach, “supposed to be an impression of _yourself_ from a couple of months ago?!”

He grimaced sheepishly as Jeremy pathetically attempted to stunt a bewildered laugh behind the most unconvincing cough Rich had ever heard.

“Yeah? So what?”

Brooke _cackled._

“Have you _met_ you??” she roared, curling in on herself and nearly tripping backwards into the bulletin board, Jeremy grasping her by the sleeve at the last second before she went careening. Rich tried to assume a defensive stance in retaliation to her outrageous hilarity, but found the unbridled laughter more contagious than abrasive, smiling in spite of himself and carding a hand self-consciously through matted, static hair.

His palm came away pink and sparkly. _Christ,_ who was he kidding here? His lisp wasn’t exactly the biggest hindrance towards any attempt at malice at the moment.

“Whatever,” he grumbled, conceding with a crumpled pout, making an unremarkable addendum of “fuck you”, gently, as though in the form of an afterthought.

Brooke only seemed to shine brighter, finally recovering from a borderline hysterical fit and nursing the newfound stitch in her side as her snickers lapsed into dilapidating, contented sighs. “Alright, losers,” she cleared her throat, tugging her backpack strap into a tighter grip, and Rich marked absently that she had yet to notice the _‘I <3 Pussy’ _ he had scrawled on the purple nylon last week, smiling to himself at the small victory. “We should probably get going. The nerds’ll be waiting for us, and-”

“Michael’s not answering me.”

The temperature seemed to plummet, and whatever tribulation may have once trifled in the air vanished in a suffocating display of petulant terror.

The prospect of lunch was forgotten as all the microbes that muted the atmosphere turned simultaneously to gawk at Jeremy, whose phone was held steadfastly in one hand, whose countenance was more placidly pale than normal, whose voice did not waver when he spoke even though the rest of him trembled almost catatonically in place.

“I’ve been texting him intermittently for the past ten minutes,” he admitted mechanically, as though relaying the weather or something equivocally obtuse and unsubstantial. “Every few seconds, if I’m being honest.” No one doubted or debated him, so he went on, “and he hasn’t responded.”

And Rich was suddenly, coldly, _irrevocably_ sure as he looked blankly at the double doors leading to the cafeteria, that their table, the _SQUAD’s_ table, the one closest to the rightmost corner of the unseemly gargantuan lunchroom, was empty.

Brooke’s clasp on her knapsack went lax and she took a step forward, hoping to mollify the now rigidly stiff, petrified mess of a boy who appeared to be losing a staring contest with his phone screen.

“Jer, I don’t think that you need to worry. His phone probably just died-

( _his phone did not just die. He would’ve texted using someone else’s)_

-or maybe he forgot-

( _he hasn’t forgotten in 4 years, a month, and three days)_

-he’s probably sitting at the table right now-

( _no he’s not)_

-I’m sure he-”

**_Pop._ **

Brooke’s hairband, still strung taut and viciously into a messy blonde ponytail, snapped, and her hair fell loose.

 

At the same time, seven miles away, Chloe Valentine uttered a bloodcurdling scream, and Michael realized in undiluted mortification that he had left his keys and his phone in the car.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> JENNA'S NEXT MKAY THINGS ARE ABOUT TO GET GOOD

**Author's Note:**

> Comment please, I crave attention
> 
> (seriously, this is all the validation I have in life. Even if you're commenting just to say you hate it, please comment, my unhealthily lethargic motivation and worth depend on it)


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